


Where There Is Smoke

by Elizabeth Klarke (cyanideparty)



Series: Adolf & Eva Collection [13]
Category: Historical Criminals RPF, Historical RPF, Political RPF - German 20th c., Real Person Fiction, Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst and Drama, Doggy Style, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Romance, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23476786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanideparty/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Klarke
Summary: It’s there, resting on her breath. She doesn’t think it is but he can smell it. And that sharp, assertive layer of mint almost makes it worse. The two scents don’t mingle honorably. In fact, they don’t mingle at all--translucent peppermint hastily tossed over black nicotine. It’s unconvincing. It’s insulting.It’s a lie and that’s what hurts.
Relationships: Eva Braun/Adolf Hitler
Series: Adolf & Eva Collection [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1011411
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Where There Is Smoke

It’s there, resting on her breath. She doesn’t think it is but he can smell it. And that sharp, assertive layer of mint almost makes it worse. The two scents don’t mingle honorably. In fact, they don’t mingle at all—translucent peppermint hastily tossed over black nicotine. It’s unconvincing. It’s insulting. It’s a lie and that’s what hurts.

His indignation is still there too. But that she knows. That’s why she’s acting so docile, speaking in such silky, contrite tones, gifting to him the words she knows he wants her to speak and to _mean_. She’s leaning into him and her fingers are laid upon his chest, close to his face. Too close. He can smell the nicotine stuck beneath her lacquered nails too.

He takes a hold of her wrist and pulls her hand down, and she can see he’s only becoming more incensed. But she’s going to push forth because his fingers are still there, stuck to her skin.

“It’s all over your fingers,” he says. His grip tightens. His voice is as hard and harsh as his eyes, and he’s purposefully whittled a painful edge to his tone. He doesn’t want her touching him with fingers defiled and reeking of poison. And he wants her to know that. He wants to hurt her back.

And that message translates perfectly. But she gives him a muted smile instead. Responds, “That’s all right, I understand.” For a moment, they only look at one another. “I’m sorry,” she says again, but this statement is hostile to his ears. Unfriendly and unwelcome. He’s tired of this phrase, it’s worthless, he wishes she’d stop using it.

“It’s still on your breath too.” A warning. She’s so close to him, and it’s only making him agitated. Because he knows very well what she intends to do, and he’s quickly losing confidence in his own determination to keep her away.

She lays her head upon his chest, ruefully tucked in beneath his chin. And he almost pulls back. The barbed desire is there. But it’s been so long and her hair feels so soft and this scent has somehow, _somehow_ remained untouched. Her wrist slowly twists in his hand and he feels a provocative pressure against his groin, and while he wants to take that step back, he feels his own determination take that move instead. Leaving him alone with an unsolicited hunger.

Wet lips press against his neck and her fingers brazenly release the buttons to his trousers. “No, I don’t think you do,” he says brusquely as she dares him with her adamant touches to stop her. She’s aware of their situation and she’s not going to hold back in weaponizing it because he still isn’t moving away from her.

“Come again?” she says quietly, looking up at him. It’s skin-on-skin now and his nails are biting into her wrist. The temperature of her hand is warmer than he’d expected. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d been thinking about this.

“I don’t think you _do_ understand,” he says. He can hear that his words are weak enough to float on air, tripping and tumbling helplessly like feathers. And that’s beyond frustrating. She’s pushing the line and he’s hardly pushing back. He’s pretending to but she knows it’s fake, it’s an act. She’s been thinking about this too and it’s impossible to cut down her determination when she has witnessed his own take a knee.

“Then help me understand,” she murmurs, all breath and heat. He stares at her wordlessly. He doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t move, he _still_ doesn’t move as she rises up on her toes and puts her mouth to his. And he closes his eyes and leans into her slightly, taking her face in his hand as the other impatiently wraps her fingers around his erection. She’s fevered and excited and it’s beginning to seep into him.

Except—he can still taste that mint. And he’s still cross with what that means. He presses her mouth harder to his but only for a second. His thumb slips beneath her chin and he forces her head back, breaking the kiss without a lick of finesse. “Don’t kiss me,” he says, his voice thick, stuck in his throat. He doesn’t want her deception on his tongue, not right now.

“Okay.” The word is crippled somewhat by her teeth. It’s difficult for her to speak with his thumb pressing up against her jaw, tilting her head back. “What do you want me to do?”

“You know what I want you to do,” he says. Although he wouldn’t mind shredding that cancerous habit of hers to pieces himself. His eyes dart around the room, landing on various objects: a dresser drawer, a jewelry box, a little decorative chest on the vanity, a familiar heart-shaped box beside it. Each time wondering if _that’s_ where she keeps them hidden from him.

“I mean right now,” she clarifies. He’s halted the movement of her hand, holding her wrist immobile. So she starts stroking with her thumb that spot on the underside of his cock, just below the head.

He can count out his own heartbeats with bitter precision. 

“I want you to show me where they are,” he says.

She hesitates, her gaze uncertain.“I don’t—”

“Stop,” he bites, pressing her bottom teeth up against the top ones completely. He yanks her hand away from his cock. “I won’t even _consider_ making love to you, not even once, until I see them gone.”

She looks away from him, and then she sighs through her teeth. “Fine.”

This time he does take the step back, releasing his hold on her; and it’s amazing how much easier it is to think without his hands on her, how much easier it is to breathe without her hands on him. Coherency, like a wash of cool air against the fever.

Moving under the weight of his eyes she makes her way over to her bed. She gets down onto her knees (and isn’t that still a triggering sight, regardless of the circumstances), flips the duvet up onto the bed and slides her hand in under the mattress. She explores for a moment before pulling her hand free, a small, reflective cigarette case in her fingers.

This infuriates him. This pains him. More than it should, he thinks. But how many times has he loved her on a bed that’s been corrupted by poison?

She rises from her knees and slides him a glance before starting towards the bathroom door.

“No,” he says. She stops and looks back at him, wondering. He walks over to her and presents his hand, palm up. “I will do it.” 

There’s a brief moment of pause, of resistance. Then she sets the polished case in his hand. He doesn’t need to explicitly state that he doesn’t _want_ to have to do this; that he wouldn’t have to if it weren’t for her. This message is evident enough by his expression. 

Turns out, it gives him no satisfaction to do this himself. Because he doesn’t want this to be a necessary action at all.

\- - -

He sees her come in because he’s lying in bed wide awake, simply staring into the darkness of the room. He’d left the door unlocked—habit. He watches her shadowy figure as she quietly makes her way to the side of the bed, as she lowers herself down onto her knees while whispering, “Adi? Are you awake?” He doesn’t answer. But she can tell he’s awake by the lightness of his breathing. “I can’t sleep,” she confesses, waiting for a moment before adding, “Knowing you’re this angry with me.”

He’s silent, his eyes focused on her subdued silhouette. He can tell her gaze is directed at the floor. One of her fingers is wrapping and unwrapping a loose thread from her nightgown around it.

“That isn’t my fault,” he finally says. His tone is so hollow and detached that even he finds the sound of it a bit strange. He doesn’t take delight in employing this tone with her. He’d much rather be softly whispering pretty things into her ear, or teasing her without restraint. 

Hell, he’d rather be bickering over his shoes.

He hears her let out a faint, breathy snicker. An empty sound, void of any genuine amusement. “It kind of is.”

“Really. How so.”

Her head turns up toward his, eyes seeking him out through the shadows. “You could stop being angry with me,” she proposes. She needs no light to see he hasn’t been charmed in the slightest by her silly suggestion. So she rests her arms up on the side of his bed and lays her head atop them. “Just sleep with me, please. Even if you’re still angry.”

“Now why should I do that.”

“Because I know you can’t sleep either,” she says. She takes one of her hands and gently runs her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “I can make you sleep.”

He grabs her wrist and moves her hand back to the mattress. “Don’t,” he murmurs, unsure if he wants her to pacify him just yet. Still, he again cannot bring himself to release his hold on her, and his fingers remain affixed to her wrist. He is in a rotten mood, and he is in a rotten mood because of her. But she is so often the one he seeks out when he’s feeling unusually miserable.

She shrugs. “Alright then,” she sighs while moving to get up off her knees. 

And for a hard moment he thinks she’s about to leave. He feels a subtle pang of disappointment and his fingers reflexively tighten. She’s supposed to try harder than that. She’s supposed to be more aggressive than that. She’s not supposed to immediately accept _no_ as an answer. She’s not supposed to leave him feeling like this.

She is supposed to fix this.

Except she doesn’t leave. She takes a hold of the blanket with her free hand and pulls it back instead, then places her knees onto the now exposed mattress in a move he should have seen coming but admittedly did not. “I said, ‘don’t’,” he tries to reaffirm as she gradually forces herself in under the blanket next to him.

“Alright,” she says, her body settling right up against his. He can feel her heart beating in her chest as she drapes an arm over his ribs, securing her body to his. She throws one of her legs up over his waist and turns her face into his neck, and he isn’t doing anything to stop this. Then he feels the featherlight touch of her lips on his skin, the slippery heat of her tongue, the pressure of her groin up against his own and then the tight, solid grip of anger is at the base of his throat again because she’s pushing him too far too fast.

“Eva, _stop_ ,” he hisses, throwing her arm and her leg off his body, shoving her onto her back. He’s hovering over her, on his hands and knees, pinning her wrists to the slim mattress on either side of her head. This bed is too small for such wild activity, they’re both now precariously close to tumbling over onto the floor and he doesn’t care. If they fall, they fall.

He’s staring down on her, just able to make out her eyes in the darkness. Eyes that are so unflustered and untroubled. And that’s a bit infuriating. She knows him too well, where his weaknesses are and how to play them, and that’s simply unfair. It’s unfair that it doesn’t bother him as much as he wants it to.

“Alright,” she says again, and he feels her knee delicately press up against his groin, searching out for and trying to stimulate his cock. He only continues to gaze at her critically, teeth grinding silently, his pulse slamming against his sternum as every new breath comes heavier and quicker. Yes, she has no intention of ceasing and he can hear himself wordlessly urging her on. It’s been so long and it's only becoming longer and he knows he can so quickly, so easily change that. It isn’t his responsibility to do so but he very well knows he _can_ and that fact is impossible to ignore.

“Kiss me,” she says then. And his fingers around her wrists tighten as his eyes narrow and his jaw sets.

“No,” he says, hard and resolute. He’s already annoyed that his hips have taken up the rhythm of her leg, striving to obtain greater pressure and greater friction. Her confidence, her persistence, it’s vexing. Worse yet, it’s unbelievably arousing. The weight of his lust is uncomfortably heavy and tumescent.

She’s being aggressive. She’s erasing the word _no_. And that’s what he wants. To be robbed of the choice. Forced into taking the thing he’s long been anticipating taking but now feels he cannot, simply by way of principle. Because principle defines everything. It directs everything. It decides everything.

And it determines nothing when the matter at hand is beyond the reach of his own.

“You’ll feel better,” she says. “I promise. You always do.”

“You don't deserve it.”

“I know,” she nods. “But you do.”

A blunt and hefty sigh. And with the weight of it he falls in a little bit closer to her. “That may very well be. But it’s not the priority right now.”

_Yet it so very easily could be._

She cocks her head to the left, her hair scratching softly across the pillow. “Then what is?”

“ _Consequences,”_ he spits out before she’s even reached the end of the question. “Punishment. Discipline. Creating an effective deterrent.”

“You’re being silly. Why must you suffer so that I may learn a lesson?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do!” he says, exasperated and distressed, and huffs again. This habit of hers wasn’t a momentous revelation. He’s always been aware. But so long as he cannot see her doing it, he can at least pretend she has stopped. He’d liked his world of denial. He’d liked forgetting about it. Blissful ignorance is all it promises to be: blissful and carefree. And without even requesting his permission, without even considering the ramifications, she’s taken it away from him.

“How else am I to force my message into that obstinate, little brain of yours?” he implores. “How else am I to make you take this matter seriously? How else am I to—”

_To keep you from killing yourself._

He’s gone through this type of territory with her twice before. And nothing he does seems to fix anything. It’s one way and then another. She is so intent on dying and he can’t fucking understand why—why she seems to want so badly to permanently take herself away from him.

At least, he hopes he doesn’t understand. Because he can only give so much right now and if she can _just wait_ —

She’s quiet for a minute, her leg still pressing up against him. Then she says, “I promise not to enjoy it.”

He scoffs, the sharp sound of air against the roof of his mouth and out through his teeth, and the accompanying eye roll isn’t the least bit smothered by the darkness. “Don’t consider me as though I'm no better than an animal,” he mutters.

But these words are mostly empty. There is no bite to them. He’s been leaning in toward her, little by little, because he already knows he’s going to sink his teeth into her instead. He’s going to lose. He’s going to heed hunger.

Maybe he is no better than an animal. And maybe that's all right. At least for tonight.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says.

“I know what you meant.”

The edge has suddenly slipped away from his voice. His gaze impulsively flickers down to her chest where he realizes he needs only to pull her nightgown to the left another inch to completely expose her nipples. She's wearing so little. It would take no effort to strip her bare. To split her thin, silk nightie right down the middle with only his hands. To tear her panties from her hips and take her with a reckless savagery she would neither combat nor protest. His cock throbs hard at the thought—a repercussion of going so long without so much as a round of masturbation.

“You want me to use you like a whore,” he says, his tone making no secret of his thoughts. “And you want me to take great pleasure in it.”

“I want you to feel better,” she confirms. “Even if you haven’t forgiven me yet.”

No. He certainly hasn’t. He has not forgiven her. Make-up sex is in no way foreign to them—but this isn’t make-up sex. This is different. This won’t change anything. This won’t fix anything. This won’t bring about forgiveness. That scorching, smarting sensation of betrayal, of deception, he’s still filled with it. Running hard on it. Making decisions on it.

He is still angry. And angry sex isn’t nearly as familiar. He can only guess at the outcome; and he cannot ignore the possibility of this only making matters worse. Of him too easily letting control slip into the embers of his resentment.

He can hurt her. Hurt her deep, hurt her in earnest if during he suddenly wants to. He can make it a dreadfully unpleasant, traumatizing experience, both physically and especially emotionally. He knows every single one of her worst fears. Where they live. How effortlessly he can set them loose on her. He can make them rip into her like wolves, tear her apart and leave her mangled and bleeding, leave her for dead.

He can lean in close and confirm with that silky tone she’s come to love so much every worry she’s ever had about him. About them.

He can murmur into her ear as he takes her without any tenderness or affection that she is so tragically far from the physical beauty he desires in a companion. That he thinks about each and every woman she’s ever hated, each and every woman that arrived before her whenever he fucks her. That she hasn’t ever come close to being his best and as such she’s never had a hope of being his last. That her parents had been correct in their initial assessment: she was never more than a pretty, little, virgin cunt for him to use and distract himself with whenever he felt the itch—and never the only one at that.

That every single _I love you_ that has ever come from his lips has been fake. In the same way she’s played him with her non-smoker charade, he’s played her by pretending to sincerely fall for her. An eye for an eye.

A lie for a lie. 

Upon a lie upon a lie upon a lie until he tires himself out. Cruel and malicious lies, designed solely for cutting her, crafted not from reality or truth, rather from her nightmares. But the greatest speakers make the greatest liars and he has never agreed to play fair when it comes to being hurt, when it comes to doling out retribution. Life isn’t fair so neither should he be.

Except the part of him that is still rational knows he’d feel guilty come morning. After having to listen to her sob madly all night long. After seeing her miserable, reddened eyes when she goes to shove him out of her room, and then slams and locks the door. After receiving nothing more than silence and distant, heartbroken glances from her in the days following. After having to feign ignorance and disinterest as everyone around them quietly wonders why she is spending so much time up in her room... and he is not.

Filthy words that could never be erased, no matter how long and how hard he could work to scrub them away. No matter how clearly he could lay bare the facts of their relationship, of their life together in order to show her that she already has everything required to demonstrably void every wretched, sacrilegious word borne solely of a vindictive, resentful whim.

He knows he could whisper honest ‘ _I love you madly_ ’s into her ear over and over like an unending lullaby every single night, try to paint over the damage. But she’d never have confidence in those words again. Their relationship would forever remain contaminated by a single night of dirty, selfish impulses on his part.

And he’d never be able to forgive himself for spoiling his own future.

If this is the game she wants to play then so be it. He is unsure of how it will play out or what the outcome will be. But he’s already decided it can not—will not—be that.

_Fine._

She sees the word reveal itself in his eyes. And she wraps her legs around his waist and urges him in closer to her and he gives way with a sigh, surrenders into her hold as she arches her back up off the mattress to kiss him. He feels her tongue begging for his against his lips and he relents, grants her access to the inside of his mouth where he’s met with the unmistakable taste of whiskey, spicy and bitter.

 _Another_ habit of hers he isn’t overly fond of. But he has yet to make a genuine fuss over it because she can sometimes be rather fun and amusing when she is tipsy. And a little too much cognac alongside her by mistake at night means he can be coaxed into rolling around on the floor of his study with her, terribly obscene things shamelessly rolling off his tongue while the door sits unlocked.

But there’s not a lick of alcohol in his system tonight. Only a gluttonous flame stricken to life by dishonesty. And habits by her he can normally tolerate are now the most perfect kindling.

He again breaks their kiss. He nudges her face to the side with his nose and whispers up against her ear, “Whores don't kiss on the mouth."

She gasps and whines softly, caught off guard. Her breath can barely keep a pace with her heart and her hips buck and grind up against his. She’s wet, she’s impatient, and she’s needy, in need of a release they both already know he is not going to allow her.

He pulls away and pushes himself up off her, back onto all fours. She makes a displeased and frustrated little noise and reaches for him, intent on drawing him back. But he easily brushes her hands away and moves back down the bed, hovering over her. He slides one of his hands flat in between the small of her back and the mattress, and his eyes blossom bright with a sudden burst of powder white moonlight.

“If you desire to be fucked like a whore,” he says before roughly flipping her onto her stomach so fast it knocks her spatial awareness off kilter, “then you are going _to fuck_ like a whore. Get on your hands and knees.”

The order takes a moment to register. But once it does, there isn't the slightest mention of hesitation or regret from her body. She quickly scrambles to position, now back in the center of the bed, placing her hands on either side of the pillow and widening the spread of her legs. It’s been so long. She’s been ready and waiting for him for so long, and she’s always enjoyed losing herself to the moments where neither of them behave any better than animals and fuck one another as such.

His fingers strike the inside of her thighs, just above her knees. Not enough to hurt but enough to be demanding, to be an order. And as she moves her knees farther apart, he pushes the bottom of her gown up and over her hips where he suddenly sees she abandoned her panties before entering the room. The anger within him flickers hotter as the reminder that he’s knowingly stepping into her trap springs forth yet again. She knew before she even stepped into the room that he was going to surrender.

“You seem to have me entirely figured out, don’t you,” he mutters. He says it like it’s a falsehood but they both know that’s not the case. He wants to deny her based on this alone, this subtle yet undeniable demonstration of her own power. But it’s already been far too long and he knows he doesn’t want it enough. Not as much as he wants to be distracted. Not as much as he wants to feel good. Not as much as he wants her.

“I promise I won’t even cum,” she says, looking back over her shoulder at him, ignoring his accusation. And he simply hits her with an unimpressed stare.

_Obviously._

This went without saying.

“It’s all about you,” she continues. “I won’t take any of your pleasure.”

His movements are frank and graceless as he re-positions his body flush to hers, his groin pressing up against her backside. Then he’s bending over her, his chest meeting the soft curve of her spine, and she feels his mouth at the nape of her neck. “Whores don't make conversation with their clients either,” he says, his breath a blanket of dewy heat across her skin. “If this is the role you're going to play, then play it right. Your mouth has but one purpose, and that isn't to make speeches."

She squeezes her eyes shut and bites her lip, holding down a sigh of arousal. She wants to thrust her hips back into his, to grind her sore, pounding sex against his erection. But that would be a display of her own desire, of her own need for satisfaction. That she wants precisely the exact same thing he wants. And for the stubborn sake of punishing her, he will endeavor to convince himself to forfeit it if she makes this too obvious.

She understands what he needs from her in order to take what he wants from her. She understands that she must sell him a lie. Just enough of one, at least.

He places a steadying hand flat against the wall in front of them while the other works behind her, the backs of his fingers brushing across her abundant wetness as he works to free himself. The head of his cock finds her tender opening then, smooth and hot; and as he slowly sinks himself all the way into her, she feels sweep featherlight across the back of her neck his quivering, breathy groan, inching toward a whimper.

His fingers curl into his palm, the texture of the wall scraping over his knuckles with the sudden motion. A reflex kicked off by the sensation of her vagina aggressively grabbing at his cock, drawing him in as deep as he can possibly be and covetously holding him there.

Despite her attempt to suffocate the budding sounds of her own pleasure, he notices the almost soundless whisper of a relieved, satisfied sigh accidentally slip from between her lips. And once again, like ice water being cast upon his skin, he is reminded that she is still winning in this scenario. That he is still losing. That losing is _what he wants._

His free hand attaches itself to her hip and he intentionally digs his nails into her skin as deep as he can because this is her fault, she is responsible for this. She is responsible for lighting these two rivaling fires. For letting him lust after her when all he wants to do is be angry. For making him angry when all he wants to do is fuck her mad.

She gasps at the sudden and sharp sensation and he feels her body twitch, startled, the warm muscles enveloping his cock constricting. With his teeth clenched painfully tight together, he tries to muster up enough sincere contempt to make his “It’s not my girlfriend I’m fucking tonight,” really punch. To make it sting. Even so, the words come out trembling slightly; and the statement ends up sounding as though he’s desperately trying to convince himself of that narrative more than he is her.

He begins to drive into her without any flair or polish. Driving into her so harshly that he wonders fleetingly if he might spot her skin with bruises. His grip on her is rigid and unshakeable. His nails are sinking deeper as he yanks her body back onto his cock with every thrust forward. And some part of him hopes that she’ll leave this bedroom with scratches so severe she’ll be unable to put those abandoned panties back on. He wants the touch of fabric to burn. A fitting punishment for a girl who likes to light up.

He closes his eyes, tosses his head back, and throws his other hand onto her other hip. A race to the finish line is all this is, with every man for himself. This is all about him. Only him. Only him.

Except that constant, obscenely covetable pressure around his cock, it’s just another glaring reminder of her own flagrant, flowering pleasure. A reminder that the woman he’s inside is, in fact, his girlfriend. His undoubtedly smug and satisfied girlfriend.

 _Liar,_ he thinks bitterly, thrusting into her like a desperate young soldier on leave. Her hold on him is tight, almost uncomfortably tight, becoming tighter. God, she always feels like a damn virgin after these long absences. A gluttonous virgin who by nature revels in sex and knows exactly how to take his cock in all the ways he’s ever desired because she isn’t afraid to be the secret incarnation of his raunchiest, most shameful fantasies and he loves that about her.

But he’s trying hard to push her out of his mind. He isn’t supposed to be thinking about her right now. He isn’t supposed to be loving her right now. He isn’t supposed to be fucking her right now. Not tonight.

Rather, the girl he _is_ fucking, she’s just a girl he won’t ever know the name of; a girl he won’t ever see the face of; a girl he won’t ever know the dreams nor the heart of. He isn’t interested in them because he isn’t interested in her. He doesn’t care about this girl, whose only purpose is to make him cum. He doesn’t want to care and he doesn’t need to. She doesn’t know him. She will never know him. She isn’t his girlfriend and she never will be. She cannot love him in the way his girlfriend can, in the way his girlfriend does and always will.

She is not his Eva. She is simply a nameless whore.

He groans, a heavy, coarse sound from the core of his chest. But how wonderful would it be if she was. How wonderful would it be if she _was_ his Eva. His Eva who knows how much he loves the feeling of her weight on him when she puts her arms around his neck and squeezes him close; who knows how much he loves the sensation of her fingernails sweeping down over his abdomen as her teeth pull at his earlobes in the dark; who knows how much he loves to watch her body violently ride him like he’s a racehorse.

It’s such a tantalizing fantasy, imagining her excitedly shoving him back onto the pillows, unwilling to accept any resistance or refusal as her knees dip into the bed on either side of his waist. Her full weight would press a little painfully onto his shoulders as she drove herself down onto his cock, chasing euphoria like she was truly terrified she’d never again have him inside her. She’d be whimpering above him. Telling him again and again through weak, wet words: _Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum._

He’d reach up and press two fingers to her slick, parted lips; and she’d open her mouth so she could suck on them as she struggled to force off her orgasm, to make the moment last. He’d smirk, push down on her tongue in a silent command to establish eye-contact, and once her eyes had found his, say clearly, _I love you_. Her hips would jerk hard, her eyes would roll back, her teeth would imprint onto his fingers, and her nails would pierce his skin as everything but her rolling hips went rigid for half a minute; and then she’d collapse onto his chest, panting erratically. The violent tremors in her vagina would carry him up along with her yet not quite far enough. He'd firlmy grab her hips and take control of her while she was still reeling, continue to viciously grind her down onto his cock as she—

Suddenly, he hears his own voice. It wrenches him out of the fantasy.

Her name. It was her name. Her fucking name. Spun directly from a wispy sigh that unintentionally slipped from between his lips.

Unmistakable. 

He nurses no doubt that she heard it. She knows she’s won and he’s lost, she knows the girl on his mind has been and still is her. He doesn’t need this confirmed by any words or any sound. The reaction he feels bolt through her body is thunderous enough. And perhaps there is something disgustingly poetic in how, even as he tries to fuck her as though she is nothing more than a whore, he still can’t drive the fantasy of making love to her out of his mind.

But he refuses to take reflection of that now.

He falls forward, his hands falling heavy against the wrought iron headboard. Then he moves one to her mouth, two fingers pressing against those parted lips. She only too happily drops her jaw and takes them deep in her mouth with a voracious appetite. Her tongue is slippery and supple against the bottoms of his fingers, the edges of her teeth hard and ribbed.

“That’s it, my girl. Suck on them like you do those filthy cigarettes,” he hisses. He’s trying to shove his cock far enough into her to make his fucking uncomfortable. If he’s unable to emotionally punish her by pretending he’s getting off to a stranger, he’ll simply make do with a physical method. She can’t find that orgasm she so desperately desires if she’s distracted by discomfort.

And to an extent, this works. Her body jerks and with each thrust he can feel her pulling away, only marginally, to lessen the intensity of the impact; to prevent him from reaching such a bitterly tender depth. But he wraps an arm around her, just below her neck, holding her as tight as he can. He pushes his fingers a little closer to the back of her throat to force her flush against his body. The grip of her teeth on his fingers becomes tighter and she’s struggling to stifle her whimpers.

And then her body gives to the rules of the situation and embraces acceptance. She’ll absorb his pain and she’ll show him how happy it makes her to do so. He wouldn’t hurt if he didn’t care. And evidence of this, whether hard or soft in its temperament, is worth far more than gold.

Much quicker than predicted she melts, almost entirely, into his arms. She begins to use the wall to ardently push back against him. Meeting him thrust for thrust. She’s hiccuping with pleasure around his fingers and it isn’t long before he can feel the heat within her rising. She's getting off on the pain, hers _and_ his. The tightening draw of the pulsating muscles sheathing his member are like a bright red signal flare, conspicuous and recognizable.

The warning signs of her impending orgasms are familiar enough that they may as well be his own.

He immediately withdraws. His cock throbs, violent, frenzied, _angry_ , feeling deceived and cheated. He has to close his eyes and grind his teeth, force his muscles to relax and tally out each of his breaths, run numbers and data through his head, all to bridle his own unshackled lust. A grated noise of surprise and disappointment comes from the back of her throat, hampered by his stiff fingers. He removes them from her mouth, mutely glistening and covered with her saliva, as he pulls away from her completely.

Her head whips around. She peers over her shoulder, inspecting him as he sits at the edge of the bed, bent forward slightly and breathing at a carefully measured pace. She hastily brings the heel of her hand to the corner of her mouth and wipes away the remnants of saliva that trailed across her cheek with his fingers. She asks breathlessly, “Why’d you stop? You didn’t—”

“On your knees,” he orders again, this time nodding curtly at the floor before him. She immediately crawls over to the side of the bed beside him before smoothly dropping down onto the floor. He’s rubbing his thumb against the two fingers still generously greased with her saliva, thinking about her mouth, about her lips and her tongue, watching as she settles herself on her knees. He has no time and he has no patience to waste on her finding a comfortable position. He uses his wet fingers to direct her chin up while she’s still fidgeting and says, “You know what to do.”

She doesn’t scrap a beat. She springs forth and takes him in her hand and then swallows him whole, straight down her throat. One swift motion. It just about knocks the wind out of him and he almost wants to laugh. She had come to him with an instinct for giving good head; and is now a rather shameless show off since the responses she pulls out of him demonstrate as much.

He leans back on one hand and uses the other to cradle the delicate ridge of her jaw as he allows himself to rapidly and fully come undone under her ministrations. He wants to chide her for showing so much disrespect to such a fine mouth. A mouth that is undeniably better off servicing things other than those ungrateful, unappreciative cigarettes—dirty work that is horribly unworthy of such first-rate and fine-tuned attentions. A tragic, lamentable waste.

He wants to tell her this. He’s going to tell her this. But he’s thrown off guard as her lips unexpectedly seal themselves tight around the base of his cock and she sucks at him hard while she slowly moves her head back, up the entire length of his shaft. Her fingers steal over to his hips. And once only the tip of his cock is resting still inside her mouth, she firmly draws her tongue up against the underside of the head while simultaneously digging her nails into him and dragging them across his skin.

He'd already been sitting right at the precipice. His mind disconnects at the abrupt collision of sensations and his hand moves without command, instinctively wrapping around the back of her neck. He yanks her forward, bringing her lips flush to his groin, forcing every inch back down the narrow channel of her throat. It bucks up against the hot and slippery walls of its confinement aggressively. But she is unruffled and relaxed, breathing steadily through her nose. Anticipating this reaction because she is experienced and talented and had long ago obtained total authority over her gag reflex. A skill they both frequently take advantage of.

She intentionally, dramatically swallows. Squeezing and messaging the raw, sensitive tip of his spasming cock while he liberally paints the back of her throat with his cum. Her fingertips run over the smarting, angry red lines now marring his hips, another flash of fire on his skin, and she groans around his cock. A sharp bullet of pain excitedly shoots down his shaft. It strikes the base of his groin and shatters into a million little shards that scatter and fly off in every direction.

And suddenly he is worried. There’s too much moving too fast, flooding too many places. Sharp, racing euphoria. Rapidly, recklessly spreading and expanding inside him. Seams are stretching and popping, threatening to tear apart and rip him open. It’s feral and it’s physically, painfully possessing him and he doesn’t know how to calm or control it. He doesn’t know how to contain it, he doesn’t know if he can.

One hand burrows into her hair. The other latches onto her shoulder. He's undoubtedly hurting her, bruising her, cutting her, his grip fierce and unyielding. He can hardly pull her any closer than she already is but he tries to anyway. Not out of the uncontrollable fervor or manic desire, but because he doesn’t know where or when this is going to stop; because something is literally trying to lift itself out of his body as it attempts to break free, carrying him with it, and he's hunting desperately for some type of anchor.

Every bit of muscle within him is as stiff and solid as steel. Staggering sensation is starting to spiral off into a dense, all encompassing numbness. He’s choking and he can’t breathe. He’s being overwhelmed. Eaten by starving shadows. There’s nothing left at his disposal and he’s ready to literally, verbally cry out when without any warning, everything inside of him stops. Everything inside of him goes silent.

Then it vanishes. All at once.

For a moment, he is left feeling utterly empty. Deflated. Oddly and bewilderingly unsatisfied. He was cast so high, so fast. And now he’s stuck, stranded and untethered. Suspended up in space, waiting and wanting to come back down.

Except he _is_ coming back down. He isn’t aware that his body is actually in motion, that the supports have given way and he is collapsing back onto the bed. Not until he feels the startling touch of fabric against his skin and the firm wall of pressure against his back as the mattress catches him and the ceiling is suddenly the only thing within his field of vision, black holes blooming across the patterns in the plaster. He’s dropped hard, like a puppet cut from its strings.

And the abrupt return of outside stimulation shocks his nerves alive and restarts him. Warm, concentrated euphoria starts to gradually albeit heavily seep throughout his muscles until every part of him feels thoroughly soaked in it. Until every part of his body feels too dense and laden with pleasure to move.

Yes, he’s more than satisfied—maybe a little too satisfied. Because now there’s an annoying ghost floating at the edge of his consciousness, trying to nudge at his attention. A far off and hollow feeling that he shouldn’t be making such a grand spectacle of the gratification bestowed upon him by her hands. He shouldn’t be giving her sex for breaking the rules, he should be taking it away.

This is just reinforcing her bad behavior. Has he already forgotten…?

But playing pretend just seems so difficult. He has neither the strength nor the desire for it. He wants to drift away into sleep. Riding on the gentle, cradling wave of soft and sweet, orgasmic bliss. He is drunk, satisfied and happy. He knows he isn't supposed to be happy—but he doesn’t want that right now. He doesn’t want to be poisoned.

The bed trembles, and then suddenly she’s before his eyes, hovering high above him, her skin wearing the moonlight like a film. She dips down and her lips press against his, gentle and safe and intimate. And against his better judgement, against any judgement at all, he kisses her back. He takes her face in his hands and he keeps her there against his mouth because kissing her, it’s so simple and it’s so sweet; and time and distance has such a skilled way of making him miss it dearly.

She hums and smiles against his lips, kisses him with a hot and open-mouthed, panting type of passion. Then she’s pulling back as her fingertips push his hair back from his temple. She cocks her head to the side, her eyes half-lidded and soft, so unbelievably soft. “We should move before you black out,” she says quietly, and adds before he can even take a breath, “You can argue with me more in the morning.”

He gazes at her, still swimming in the fog as he considers this statement. They both very much know that he will. The routine never changes. He will continue to chase her with the same numbers and same horror stories, and she will continue to stoically take them all in and offer the silent impression that maybe, _just_ maybe, the words this time will stick. He will go about turning corners with practiced ignorance, and she will continue to throw cigarettes out the window at the sound of footsteps while hoarding mints in her purse. He will continue to issue empty threats and ultimatums. And she will continue to see through them.

The routine never changes. They are as stuck in their ways as any other old, bickering married couple.

But for now, she is right. The routine can wait a few hours.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh the drama. I accidentally wrote a damn soap opera.  
> Anyway, happy quarantining. Please take it seriously and stay in.


End file.
